Deadlines

Raymar looked around from the passenger seat next to the taxi-driver's, and didn't like what he saw. The two obese women in the back seat were spilling chips all over the floor, and spat bits of batter and fish while cackling like hags over a cardboard carton of cheap wine. Even though the taxi's stereo was loosening gobbets of phlegm from his bronchi, he was sure he could hear their feet sticking velcro-like to the remnants of a previous ill-advised automotive binge.
"Hey wena, put that on a bit louder sweerie. It's my favourite song," said the monstrosity in yellow. Her shirt was the same colour as the bits of fish batter stuck to it. Raymar wondered what she would do if he turned around and just said, "Fuck no."
But today was no day to be a cowboy.
She would soon learn that, like him, sometimes you had to put your foot down firmly. It was his last shift and he wanted to get home as soon as soon as he had done the job.

You see, for a cartoonist, making a hit was as easy as erasing a bad sketch.